Dear No One
by RuGrimm
Summary: William psychiatrist gives him the idea to begin his own diary. Writing in a journal for nineteen entries and nineteen days, we finally get to see just what he is thinking.
1. August 17

It has come to my attention that one usually keeps a collection of one's current events in a book in which each entry is entitled "Dear Journal" or "Dear Diary". This would either mean that one holds said book to be dear, or that said book is an animate thing. Neither of these are true, thus there shall be no such things in this assortment of my rumination.

This repertoire of my conscious was brought about and suggested by my psychiatrist. Every reaper has a psychiatrist that they are required to see once a month for evaluations (how Sutcliff manages to pass them may forever be a mystery). Although, I feel this to be strenuous and hinder some to our schedules, it cannot be avoided. My psychiatrist's name is Mr. Robin, and despite the fact that I find him irritating on most days with his childish jokes and sense of humor, I concede that he has his share of invaluable ideas and suggestions. Mr. Robin believes that this practice of writing down my thoughts is presumably a way to de-stress. I am unsure how this may help; however, I can deduce that it is a way to reflect and calm oneself by distracting them of all other things in the vicinity.

This 'journal' of my recollections is planned only to be the length of the nineteen pages left within it. The others were torn out at an earlier date, and many were taken by the infamous redhead who seems to always be lurking nearby. I find it odd that there is only nineteen pages.

Nineteen pages for the next nineteen days.

Nineteen pages for me to make a psychiatrist happy.

Nineteen pages for the nineteen seconds it will take to beat the redhead who has just barged into my office.

 **William**


	2. August 18

Seeing as there is not much of myself to write about, Dr. Robin suggested that I simply jot down everything that has happened today, no matter how minuscule.

I awoke at 6:45 a.m., reaper standard time, and took a shower. The shower took only five minutes and would be much shorter if I didn't brush my teeth while doing so. On occasion, such showers take eight minutes for I do like to enjoy a hot shower in the morning. Dr. Robin pronounces that it's also a good way to unwind. He has advocated baths, but I have not the time, nor do I want to.

After the shower, I shaved, combed back my hair, and proceeded to my bedroom where I got dressed in my self-tailored suit. Breakfast was a cinnamon bagel I grabbed whilst going out the door, and I walked seven blocks to work—as I do every day.

Work was as bland as usual, and the only slightly stirring event was that of Sutcliff who managed for the millionth time to make my day a living hell. Yet again, he'd succeeded to grate on my nerves by managing to destroy an entire apartment trying to fight a demon indoors. Humans had managed to see this spectacle, and divine intervention was needed to cleanse their memories of what they had witnessed. It was taxing to turn to the white slaves above to solve our problems, and even more so to have to procure the proper paperwork that I must turn in tomorrow to my Director.

Once again, Sutcliff is the cause of all my quandaries. He has bespattered my reputation, and I find myself trapped in the ugly mire of frustration caused only by his incompetent presence. Unfortunately, I am cursed to deal with this for the entirety of my immortal, eternal life. Despite my growing want, murder is not an option and would be the cause of more paperwork. He isn't worth the time nor effort.

Also, he has managed to not only increase the load of my paperwork but also my concern. Upon his lecture today of his overall incompetence, I have noticed that he held himself differently, and he spoke softly. It would be an overstatement to say that I fear more for his mental state, but I shall not tell a lie and say that it does not concern me at all.

I have asked Mr. Robin to see into it tomorrow.

 **William**


	3. August 19

If it is at all possible, Grell Sutcliff has managed to fool everyone yet again. Upon his visitation with Dr. Robin, he was apparently the same as ever—the demon inside having gone nowhere. Any indication of his odd behavior yesterday had completely vanished in the last thirteen hours.

Then again, it is not entirely surprising to me. Grell Sutcliff constantly proclaims his 'acting prowess', and I believe that yesterday's odd behavior was part of his 'performance'. If that is the case, he was acting in poor taste. However, I cannot help but to speculate whether or not his act was yesterday or his apparently customary comportment today.

With all aspects of Officer Sutcliff set aside, I am surprised that I was given an invitation to an office party in Human Resources tomorrow from Ronald Knox. I have no interest in attending, but I am curious as to why he would bother giving me an invitation. I suspect it was some plot deviated by Sutcliff, and there shall be something awaiting me there if I am to come.

And now I find myself speaking of Sutcliff once again, and I am confused as to why this is? Why am I so concerned with the wellbeing of my officer? Part of me hopes that it is only concern so that I will not have to fill out more paperwork. Ironic that a former Puritan would complain of more work, but then again, it was being such that got me in this mess in the first place.

As I sit here in my office, long after I was scheduled to leave, I find myself conjecturing just when I started caring about that certain red-haired subordinate who has made himself a constant in my life. Perhaps, it is because I do not favor nor accept change; if Sutcliff were to precipitously change personality again, scythe help us all. However, I cannot help but wonder whether or not this odd concern is something more. I can assume that it could be an odd sense of friendship that has slowly (and grudgingly) developed over the course of the years elapsed, or it is my duty as a supervisor to oversee the health and well-being of my officers.

Surely, it couldn't be more than that, right?

Now I wonder whether or not coming to such a party shall provide insight into this odd turn of events. If Sutcliff does appear, perhaps it will be a more casual setting to inquire about his mental state.

I shall ponder on it tonight and decide in the morning. For now I must return home where a bed that has long eluded me today is awaiting.

 **William**


	4. August 21

_My hand is the gateway to the mixed emotions making their home in the recesses of my brain._

I attended the party the night before, hoping to speak with Sutcliff about his mental condition, but I could not find him at the beginning. The moment I walked through those doors to the cafeteria downstairs in Human Resources, Ronald Knox was suddenly in my personal space.

He told me that it was a surprise to see me, and that it's good to see that I am not stressing over the veritable mountain of paperwork that is usually on my desk. I told him that he was usually the reason that paperwork was on my desk—him and Sutcliff. Simply laughing, somehow he managed to persuade me in, and upon my inquiry of Officer Sutcliff's location, he shrugged and handed me a Pimm's Cooler, much to my dismay.

The scene of the party was not necessarily welcoming, and I found myself standing on the sidelines and staring at the beverage in my hand with a stoic frown. I was not here for the drinks or the exotic seizures that someone had the idiotic gall to call dancing. Neither did I care for the _ka-ka-ka_ of whatever the hell the song playing was. I believe that the sound of a dying bird was _supposed_ to be music. Ronald Knox, I think, said that the song was called: 'What Does the Fox Say?', which is something akin to the word: stupid.

Standing there was increasingly agitating; no work was getting done, and Sutcliff was nowhere to be seen. I cannot recall when I started drinking the concoction put in my hand, but I know that I did. And then I drank another, and another, and another. Even now, I cannot recollect how much I imbibed on, but I know it was quite a cumbersome sum.

Sometime in my inebriation, Sutcliff must have shown up. Everything is still fuzzy, but I can briefly remember Officer Sutcliff offering to take me home in that lewd voice. There was no reluctance in my voice when I accepted his invitation.

When I first awoke, I didn't know what had happened. All I knew was the warm body beside me in bed, and I was disgusted. My head ached, pounding, and his presence only made it worse. I've never hated him more…if I ever hated him to begin with. I didn't care for those arms around my waist or the familiar red head on my chest. Not then, but now I miss it.

I…remember throwing him off, cursing and screaming. I told him he was worthless and a whore. I told him I hated the mention of even his name. I hated _him._ And then I struck him. The sting on his cheek likely was a pinch to the agony I saw in his eyes, and I instantly regretted it. When it happened, I recoiled and backed away, not believing what I had just done. However, the tears on _Grell's_ cheeks could not be argued with.

I had made the once unbreakable Grell Sutcliff cry.

And I stood there, watching him run out the door without a sound.

I do not know why I automatically assumed the worst when I woke up in bed with Sutcliff with a headache. Both of us were still clothed…

Now I can remember coming home last night, stumbling through the door with Grell in my arms. He was pinned beneath me in bed, my lips on his and vice versa, and I was astonishingly eager. I never thought that I'd be in that position before. It wasn't something I ever thought I would do to anyone. The ghosts of hands still grip at my biceps, the fast drumming of a heart against my chest better than any music I had ever heard. And yet, I can still remember when it ended. Grell had turned away from the kiss, looking away and doing nothing even as I kissed down his neck.

 _"William, stop."_

It was _Grell_ who had hesitated and kept me from doing what my drunken mind desired. It was Grell who rolled over and tuned away, ignoring my attentions like one does to a minuscule fly on the wall. He told me in a quiet, heartbroken voice that it was to keep me from doing something that I might regret.

However, I still have done something atrocious. I have likely destroyed any friendship I had. I have likely made Grell more unstable than he already was. I have made myself feel something I have never felt before.

 _Regret._

 **William**


	5. August 25

There is a term that I have heard called: 'Being in the doghouse'. If it is at all possible, it is likely that I now live in said doghuose.

It has been three days since the incident, and Grellsutcliff has avoided me like the plague. With every attempt to contact him, he has successfully escaped my presence-whether it be taking more field work or taking lunch and breaks at the right times as if he knows where I will be at all times.

I have only seen a glimpse of that familiar red in four days. The silence of my office is unusual, and it is a taunting reminder of the saying: 'you never know what you have until you lose it'.

I have lost my best friend.

I find myself lonelier than I have ever been; it is a hard feat to accomplish.

There is no question. This must be fixed quickly, and after speaking with Humphries today, I may have a plan.

Officer Alan has allowed me to read a book that he has kindly lended me, saying that it would help. Unfortunately, I fail to understand how flowers that will eventually wilt and die will help at all. They will fill the air with pollen, leaving some with nasty allergies that will disrupt work, and Sutcliff will likely blow the truth out of proportion.

Nevertheless, I find myself with a lack of better options.

The book's name is: The Language of the Flowers. I am reluctant to give Sutcliff flowers, but after reading such a book, there is one particular flower that has caught my attention.

It was Christmas when it occured, and I remember Sutcliff's sole wish on the wish list he usually kept on his wall around such a useless holiday.

For Christmas, I want to make Will smile...

Something that I had once taken as meaningless and to be ignored was my inspiration for the flower I would be sending him. Wild Sweet Williams were known to mean 'smile', or for the receiver to be blessed with 'smiles'. However, it shall be the sender who will be sending a certain person a smile. And thus, I plan to give Sutcliff what he asked for Christmas last year.

I shall send him my smile.

 **William**


	6. August 27

Last night, I left Sutcliff a bouquet of Sweet Williams in his obnoxiously red office for him to find whenever he bothered to appear. A handwritten note apologizing for my unacceptable behavior on the twenty-first was also included.

Upon hearing that he hadn't returned to work last night and this morning and that Mr. Knox had no idea of his whereabouts, I searched through the personal files in search of where he could possibly be. Not only had I learned his home address, but I have also learned that he had been placed under suicide-watch six times in the last decade and in hospitalized care twice. It was cause enough to go searching for his apartment.

When I discovered his dwelling, I knocked on the door twice, expecting an answer that never came. I twisted the handle only to see if the door was locked; it wasn't. Never was it my intention to further intrude upon my subordinate, but something pulled at me. I had to know. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.

Opening the door, there are no words to describe the atrocity that spread out like wildfire before my eyes. The apartment was in shambles. I vividly recall shouting Grell's name, gradually growing louder with every bottle that I stepped over, and I nearly started to scream his name at the sight of the blood-crusted knives I caught sight of in the sink and on the counter. His apartment was in such a state of disarray, it couldn't have possibly been cleaned in weeks. Food was left out to rot in the open, flies gathered around the sink filled with dishes. How long had Grell been in such a state? As long as I have known Mr. Sutcliff, he has always been efficient at keeping up with his work. Unlike the stereotypes of his fellow coworkers, he still keeps up with his paperwork and field work—always organized. Everything has a place with the redhead. How far had he been pushed to end up like this? Had I been the cause of this?

After searching the apartment, I remember freezing in the doorway to Sutcliff's bedroom.

I found Sutcliff face-down in his bed. He wasn't breathing.

I called out his name as I approached. He didn't respond.

I checked his pulse with a tremulous hand. There was nothing. And as I touched his wrist after checking his neck, my fingertips stuck to drying blood…

I write this journal now in the hospital, two hours after I found Sutcliff's unresponsive body and carried him all the way to the emergency room in a panic. There has never been a time in my life as a reaper that my carefully constructed personality snapped. However, tonight was a first for many times. Not only have I discovered that I see Sutcliff as more than an employee, but I have come to the conclusion that life will be dull with a lack of his presence. I do not know how I shall adapt to the silence now. The waiting room is too quiet. I hate the lack of noise. I hate the lack of Sutcliff's once irritating voice. I hate the lack of his looming presence over my shoulder. And I do not know how long I can stand it. The absence of Sutcliff is more annoying than when he is here.

Now I await word of whether or not he is no more. His lifeless body in my arms shall forever haunt my mind. My logical mind knows that there is likely no hope for Officer Sutcliff, yet I still hope.

Perhaps, there is a chance. No matter how small, I…hope that Grell will be anything but deceased.

And maybe then, I can atone for my mistake and re-establish my friendship. Do not mistake my affection for his presence for love; that is not what this is.

It shall never be.

 **William**


	7. August 28

I am sitting now in Sutcliff's room by the window, waiting for him to awake again. It was two in the morning before I was allowed to see him last night, and when he awoke earlier this morning, not much was said. There wasn't anything to say. We simply acknowledged each other, and I asked how he felt. His response was dry and bitter, and rightfully so.

"I could be better."

There is no doubt that if I hadn't done what I did, he wouldn't be in his state right now. Indeed, he could have been much better off.

The doctors explained that it was a habit of Officer Sutcliff's to appear dead when he slept, having not to breathe, and he had simply passed out after cutting himself. The wounds were not particularly deep, meaning he hadn't meant to kill himself—not yet anyway.

This particular incident has convinced the infirmary staff to keep him under suicide-watch and not release him until Sutcliff's own psychiatrist releases him. I do not know how long that will take, and I already dread the amount of paperwork that will entail.

As I look around the room, I make not of only one bouquet of flowers on the night stand. They were from Mr. Humphries, and Mr. Knox had only sent a note. I had once been under the impression that Mr. Sutcliff had more admirers than that, but I have seen no other sign of friendship. The hospital staff has kept their distance, and only one secretary has told me to pass along a message. Perhaps, Mr. Sutcliff is not as well-loved as I once thought. I am unsure as to how to handle this news. Was this yet another reason Sutcliff has been acting odd lately? Was his strange behavior originated from…loneliness?

Surely, more than just Alan and Ronald feel friendship toward Mr. Sutcliff. I have heard of many reapers who brag of having one-night stands with him. Is it not curtesy for one to thank one for the pleasures they provide? Is it not respectful to at least show a little generosity toward the one that kept you company, no matter how frivolous it really was?

I am beginning to feel disgust for those who have treated Mr. Sutcliff with such disdain and disrespect. Although, it is partially Mr. Sutcliff's fault for sleeping around, it is not surprising that he has slept with a large number of employees as he has lived for several centuries. One cannot expect another to sleep with only five or six people who live in close quarters after nearly three hundred years. Even I can admit that I have had my own share of escapades; however, many have consisted of humans to avoid the talk of my subordinates. If word were to get out that 'Chilly Willy' actually had needs because (newsflash) HE IS A MAN, I would have a tyranny on my hands.

For now, I shall simply think of how to speak with Mr. Sutcliff when he awakes from his nap. There are apologies that must be said, despite my unwillingness to speak them. I must preserve one of Sutcliff's few friendships, if the madman is to not only physically heal but mentally.

 **William**


	8. August 29

I have finally atoned for my misbehavior with Mr. Sutcliff yesterday night.

It took several hours for him to come around from the anesthesia that the infirmary staff had put him under, and it gave me plenty of time to not only keep up with the mountain of paperwork that always plagues me, but it also allowed me to invent the words that must be said.

Those words now escape me, as I am literally going on seven cups of caffeine after staying up overnight with Sutcliff. However, I remember sitting in the chair beside Sutcliff's bed, saying my apologies in the only way that I knew how.

"I apologize, Grell Sutcliff for my misbehavior in which…" I know that it began with that.

Sutcliff chided me for my lack of 'dramatic flair', and I simply scoffed and said:

"I shall leave the acting to the only one who can do it justice."

I do believe that Sutcliff squealed, and if I had neglected to prevent him from jumping out of the bed, he might have ripped out the wires attached to the crease of his elbow. I believe they were to keep him on some sort of depression medicine of some kind, and it is likely that it is why he hasn't been running on all cylinders for the past day. He has been giggling and talking to himself, and I am unsure whether or not that it is the drugs or his true mental state.

I would give up my scythe hoping that it is the first.

Mr. Humphries was admitted to the hospital early this morning after another attack from the Thorns, and I find myself in my office trying to juggle the paperwork of the two absent officers and my own. Slingby has neglected to show any interest in helping, and I wouldn't accept the assistance of Mr. Knox if all of Hell were to come marching through the doors of the Great Cinematic Library. It seems that I am at a loss for what to do, and Ms. Grenger, my secretary, has been helping in any way she can.

I do appreciate the help she has offered, but there is only so much that she can do. At least Mr. Sutcliff and Humphries both did their paperwork on time. However, they were both field agents, and I am stuck doing my own paperwork whilst waiting for their assignments to finally die. We are horribly understaffed, and I have put my complaint in with the Dispatch for the umpteenth time.

I doubt they will send any help, if they bother to read my letter at all. Sometimes, I believe that it is Undertaker who is running the Dispatch instead of qualified, esteemed Shinigami in their placid suits. Surely, they would actually care about the establishment that they are running…correct?

Perhaps, if I were to run the Dispatch, things would actually get done. However, that would mean Sutcliff would become a supervisor (being the most qualified in the Division), and that is a thought that would give me day-mares (as I hardly sleep). Scythe help us all.

 **William**


	9. September 11

Today is a reminder of one of the worst days of my Shinigami life. It is September 11th. It is the day my division lost two good reapers, and we were forced to reap 2,996 souls in the course of one day (not to mention the many other souls that died back in London). It was Sutcliff, Mr. Baxter Hodgings, Ms. Francis Dana, and I who were transferred to the American Division for one day. Hodgings and Dana were the reapers sent up with a few other Americans to the upper levels where demons were roaming free to consume the souls of the dying. The building collapse on them, trapping them and leaving them helpless to the demons who turned their sights toward them.

The Dispatch as a whole lost twelve reapers to that attack.

It was nearly as stressing as World War II. That is something I do not like recalling.

The entire floor was quiet today in a solemn silence; even Ronald didn't have his usual uppity attitude. I can even hear a pencil drop on the other end of the floor.

Mr. Sutcliff was released under the condition that I keep a close eye on him and report any suspicious behavior. He sits on the couch against the wall of my office, quiet and staring out the window at the silent city of Reaper London.

No one had the heart to talk. Normally, I would be relieved for the silence, but even I cannot dispute that the dismal aura of the entire division is a heavy depressant on not only my work ethic, but my mood in general. I cannot focus in this silence. My mind is tugged back to the burning building Sutcliff and I roamed years ago, reaping the souls of those screaming in agony. I was not quite affected then, and Sutcliff was far from impressed. He collected four hundred and twenty-seven souls in only a few hours. It was enough to earn my respect and convince me that perhaps he is not a lost cause. Grell Sutcliff was indeed a deadly efficient officer that day.

Sutcliff and I finished before anyone else, and we stood outside the building waiting hours for the return of our comrades that would never return. The humans that could not see us sat on the ground, hugging themselves and each other with tears and screams. Firemen raced in and out of the building, but we all knew that they wouldn't come back. We watched and listened as the screams gradually died out, fading only to the sound of sirens all around and in the distance. The cries of those outside, waiting for the loved ones that they would never see again still plague my mind.

Those inside would only come back as names on a wall.

Now I focus on simply jotting down my thoughts, reflecting on my emotions that swirl beneath the titanium plates that hold them tightly inside. I cannot describe the heavy heart that I feel, and I feel a slight remorse that is…in a word: different. It seems to be the general feel today.

I shall place this book away on the corner of my desk until something worth writing comes my way. There is work to be done, and I cannot let this mood hinder my schedule.

 **William**


	10. September 14

Grell Sutcliff has made major improvements in his health. It appears that his mental state is recovering, but it is hard to tell with his tendency to hide things behind the mask of his 'acting'.

Dr. Robin has suggested that I am the most likely candidate for Sutcliff to open up, and it is up to me to bring out the truth from Mr. Sutcliff. Unfortunately, I am unprepared for what this may pertain.

During the past few days, Mr. Sutcliff has spent his working hour with me in my office to do paperwork, and it is Mr. Knox that has escorted him out on his collections. He seems to be the same as ever. What occurred in the past month seems to be as far away as the day we graduated together at the academy. Nevertheless, I know better than to set this whole situation aside. With that in mind, it seems that at the present time, Sutcliff has easily caught up with his paperwork. There are no problems, and no flaws in his work. Yet, he had yet to start a realconversation with me. Other than the occasional flirt, it seems that Sutcliff has neglected to truly speak with me.

This morning, I attempted to break the streak of theoretical silence.

It didn't go well.

I asked Officer Sutcliff about what he did outside of work. He asked why I cared. I told him I never stopped. He told me that I needed to tell that to what I did to him that one morning and stormed out the door. I admit, I am not the best when it comes to…personal interaction.

Perhaps, Mr. Knox would be a better candidate than I for getting the infamous flirt to truly open up. The insufferable rose I've been tasked with having to tend for has overgrown with thorns and brush, making it impossible to get to the flower so far from my reach. I don't know how to approach this. However, I can only hope for the best.

 **William**


	11. September 26

It was during an investigation over the past two weeks that the incident that I caused had been amended.

For the last two weeks (exactly fifteen days), Sutcliff and I were doing an investigation for a particular human was scheduled to die and was thought to possibly be allowed to live. Unfortunately, neither of us found the value in his life, and he died as scheduled, but I found the true success in the investigation to be my apology to Sutcliff. It was during this time that I realized I had grown fonder of him than previously thought.

I am beginning to fall in love with Grell Sutcliff. And I don't want to.

I believe this is part of a physical attraction that has coupled with my friendship with him and wish to make sure that his mental state has healed to the best of its ability. It is nothing more.

Officer Sutcliff has not yet discovered that I sent him flowers the day before he was found "dead". Hopefully, it shall remain that way. With Sutcliff making his recovery, I do not wish to give him any hope that we have any chance of being in a relationship. Despite my growing…affections for him, I do not have the time for it. The talk in the office would only distract from work, and Sutcliff would lose any efficiency he may have had for his own work. It would be an overall distraction and disaster.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I fear breaking Grell's mental state. It has nothing to do with not wanting to break Grell's heart. It has nothing to do with being afraid to open up.

It couldn't be. My name is William T. Spears. I wouldn't lower myself that far—never.

 **William**


	12. October 30

A large sum of days between now and my last journal entry has passed. However, paperwork has only increased this past month, and murders and suicides seem more frequent with the anniversary of the 7/7 terrorist attacks having passed.

Before this whole ordeal, I would have deemed it unfortunate that I was tasked with having to keep an eye on Sutcliff the entire time, but I have found that his presence has lessened in the field of irritability. That is a great achievement on both our parts. After the past events, Sutcliff seems to have grown somber and less exuberant. He has become more tolerable.

The cause of this is still unknown to me, but I am curious as to unlock the secrets of Grell Sutcliff. There are not many mysteries in the world that can interest me so, but the secret of Grell Sutcliff is one that has me in an inquisitive state. What lies deep within is an interesting conundrum. I wish to figure it out.

As we near Halloween, I have heard signs of a costume party Knox will be throwing in the main lobby downstairs. Although my last visit to a party proved to be unfavorable, I believe it will be the best way to speak with Grell. I cannot do so with as much work as we both have now. I find it incredibly distracting to be talking of such when anyone can overhear in the quiet of my office. Grell Sutcliff tends to grow loud when he's excited. My hope is that the irritating squawking called 'music' will dampen the volume of our conversation.

It is unlike me to pursue someone in this way, and I find that my hand begins to sweat as I write with my pen at the thought of such a thing. Whether or not it is uncertainty, fear, or even excitement, I am still curious as to what. However, I will get to the bottom of these strange feelings I have never experienced as a Shinigami before.

I will detangle the rose from the bramble bush.

 **William**


	13. October 31

It is nearly eleven o'clock. I cannot sleep knowing what I know now. I have allowed myself to feel these emotions that were so easily extinguished.

Earlier tonight, I attended Knox's Halloween party with a lack of caution that I should have carried. Once again, I found that Grell Sutcliff was nowhere to be seen. That 'music' was playing, filling my ears with nonsense, and it was difficult to speak with Knox over top of such a volume. He said that Sutcliff was in his apartment, and that he had explicitly told him that he would not be attending the party. It made me quite irritable as I had gone through great lengths to acquire a costume for such a party. I ignored the playful jests making fun of my March Hare costume on the way out. They said I would make a better white rabbit with how I wished for everything to be on time. What nonsense.

Upon entering the apartment complex in which many of the Shinigami officers lived, I paused at Grell's door as I had done last time I visited it. Would I find Grell in the same state again?

A groan on the other side caused me to rush through during the first time I had ever spent not thinking. I had expected to see Grell on his bed, laying there with his wrists slashed. I didn't expect to see him lying there in none other than the Undertaker's lap, sticking his tongue down his throat.

When they saw me, they did nothing only to stare at me for a second, and then continue what they were doing.

I have never been more hurt than I was then. I quickly left, and that image still plagues me know. I still cannot believe what I saw, and when I awake tomorrow…if I manage to fall asleep, I hope this to be only a dream. I do not know what I will do if it isn't.

For once, I am unsure.

 **William**


	14. November 3

I have released Grell Sutcliff from my watchful eye and have thus ignored him for the most part. Contrary to many beliefs, my own emotional harmis possible. Even I did not think it was.

Unfortunately, Grell Sutcliff has shown no relent in his flirtatious personality around the work place, and I find myself wondering whether or not his…activity with the infamous Undertaker was merely a one night fling to meet his particular fancy with the man. It has come to my attention that Grell Sutcliff missed a collection yesterday evening while visiting said Undertaker at his mortuary. With the evidence piling up against him, I seriously doubt that it is a temporary fling or less. I have missed whatever opportunity I had with him…

The visits to my office have lessened to only once a day, and my office has become increasingly…silent. This overall quiet is a waiting shadow lurking in the corner. It's haunting me more than a ghost lurking after this recent Halloween. Guy Fawkes Night is soon, and I fell that it has something to do with this dark feeling hanging over me.

The rose was building a bramble barrier to keep me out so that it may be plucked by another man who used his scythe to cut the thorns back with a single swipe. I am left alone with the only affection I have ever known: paperwork. This dismal cloud hanging over my head with a dead weight makes gravity press against me harder, and my chest is heavy; my throat is tight. It is hard to breathe. For the first time, I have noticed how utterly lonely my past life has been. My Death Day is only a month away. I remember that Grell's Death Day is only in a week.

I can recall my own death despite the years that has passed. I remember the shot of a gun, the brief, instant pain that came afterward and lasted only mere second. I remember my human life, my mother growing sick, my older sister's rape and murder, my little brother as he drowned, my father leaving my last sister and me alone to fend for ourselves. Even now, the memory of my sister's carriage accident is still fresh. It was when I was first left alone…and it appears that I have stayed that way over the course of many years. The question is when it will all finally stop.

I have truly lost my best friend to the Dispatch's most wanted, and I am considering whether or not to take away the one who stole my heart's first interest. Perhaps then he shall return to my eager embrace. Like a mouse, I shall bait him to the trap with an offer he cannot refuse. I will continue to contemplate my next move.

Will it be better to steal the rose from the gardener?

Or shall I leave it to flourish under his green thumb?

 **William**


	15. November 11

Today is Grell's Death Day.

One's Death Day is the most important day of a reaper's life. It is the day that we died as humans and were born as Shinigami. It is the day that our sorrow ceased and was erased away with our memories. Like me, some of us eventually regain our memories, but I know that even now, Grell Sutcliff does not know how he died.

I learned of Grell's death nearly a decade ago, and what I know is simply that he slit his wrists. It was written in a report after his death by the reaper who collected his soul: the Undertaker.

To think, Grell was killed by the man I thought he was falling in love with. It makes me nauseous.

However, despite his affections for the man, Grell Sutcliff had decided to spend his Death Day with me, of all people. I grievously misjudged him.

Today, he managed to not only get his assigned work done, but he helped me complete my own in the silence of my office. He said nothing to be except the useless chatter over a mere human who does his nails every Thursday and had apparently been cheated on by her husband whom she was married to for thirteen years.

Nevertheless, I managed to finish my paperwork on time for once, and Grell escorted me from the building with even more mindless chatter. It was a fairly pleasant walk to my home, and although I hardly participated in his discussion at first, I do not know how I managed to start talking endlessly about hair styles in the early nineteenth century.

I do not know how I ended up pulling Grell against me.

I do not know how I managed to start kissing him for the first time…sober. It was, surprisingly, nice. I still quite remember the taste of strawberries and vanilla. I remember the feel of pale skin and flex of muscles beneath me. For once, I was not completely annoyed by his voice when I was the source of it.

I can still feel the sharp sting of scratches and bite marks on my skin, and I do hope that the evidence of such activities will not be visible in the morning. I have never found myself to be fond of pain, however I find myself stuck with it. I am still most cross.

Never had I thought I would be in this situation, especially not a year ago. However, I am in it now. I've fallen from my podium of disgust and abstinence.

The situation I have gotten myself into is questionable in the least.

Here I am in the middle of the night. I am not alone in my room as I write this. Grell is asleep in my bed nearby, likely having the most peaceful sleep in many months. It was after everything had died down that I lay there with Grell in my arms, and we spoke in low voices.

Grell had used the Undertaker for information. He wanted to know how to make me fall for him. I still wonder what the Undertaker told him. How would he know what would make me sway?

The old man works in mysterious ways.

I do not know what I shall do in the morning, or what the future will entail. However, I believe that for the first time in many years, I feel utterly relaxed.

 **William**


	16. November 13

It has been two days since the night with Sutcliff, and things seem to have returned to normal. I have since not have any such affections for Sutcliff in the way that I had acted before, and our friendship seems to have continued.

I have completed the goal that I have set out to do. What happens now shall remain a mystery to me for quite some time. Having only today and three more days left to write about in my journal, I shall continue to jot down my thoughts and memories very briefly at every chance that I get. Even now, Hanukah preparations are being made in advance. Ever since the events of the last world war, the number of Jewish reapers has been outstanding. Even Mr. Knox is Jewish.

I have no problem with the ethnicity of reapers in the workplace, but I do not plan on attending the little gathering they have put together. I know not what would occur during those events, since I myself was a Puritan until my death.

For now, I shall focus on the paperwork that seems to be constantly growing on my desk like a hydra that only gained two heads for every one chopped off. Unfortunately, Grell Sutcliff does not understand this concept. As I feared, he has blown things out of proportion.

I showed up to work this morning…only to walk into a certain redhead laying extremely provocatively on my desk. Flowers were sent to me during lunch, and during my 'break', I received a rather pleasant surprise with a personal message as I did my paperwork.

My only complaint would be that I hope that such things do go overboard. Knowing Sutcliff's personality, it will likely be my responsibility to keep him in line. Hopefully, I will be able. I cannot imagine what my other coworkers will say if they learn of this. It will be the talk of the office for many months, I am quite sure. No doubt, things will likely get out of hand quickly. I can only hop that this is not the case. The longer it stays a secret, the better.

 **William**


	17. November 16

Unfortunately, my plan to keep things under wraps did not last long. Ronald Knox was the first to know thanks to Sutcliff's big mouth. Like always, he does not seem to know the meaning of discretion.

During lunch, I left a dictionary on his desk with the page containing discretion bookmarked. Hopefully, he has the acumen to understand.

With such events that have taken place, whispers and odd looks have been thrown my way while I walk through the offices. It seems highly unprofessional. They need to mind their own business. Who I spend my personal time with is my concern—not theirs. I fear that upper management will eventually hear this and give me a cut in pay due to possible distraction. Although it is highly unlikely, I still worry as any involvement with Sutcliff seems to lead to negative things.

An example of such negativity was being caught snogging him inside the breakroom when I thought there was no one looking. It was Sutcliff's bad luck that caused Eric Slingby to walk through the door. Naturally, I played it off as one of Sutcliff's antics, and now I am being severely punished the only way that Grell knows how to punish: a date.

We stopped at a café for a small breakfast today on a 'date'. I managed to make it seem completely professional at the beginning, but it was hard to play it off as such when Officer Sutcliff decided that my lap was more comfortable than the chair he was previously siting in—honestly. I promptly pushed him off and was then further tortured by the hand that seemed to like crawling up my leg. I wasn't sure whether or not to be repulsed or turned on. It was an odd mixture that I shall not further explain.

Truly, the new adventure I have set on is a confusing one. I did not think I would ever be put in this position. I can facilely imagine my disgust if I were to read these entries years before this, if such things were possible. The older William T. Spears would not think these things.

What changed?

Was it simply the sympathy for a companion and the guilt felt by my actions that lead me to this predicament? Surely, it has to be more—more than just guilt. I feel that something is dreadfully wrong with me, as if I live in an alternate universe and that I have become more lenient on Grell Sutcliff's behaviors. Could this all be nothing more than a dream?

 **William**


	18. December 18

It has come to Dr. Robin's attention that I have a relationship with Mr. Sutcliff. He has played it off as nothing more than a joke for now, but I could sense his initial discomfort at the thought. I do not think that he approves of such a relationship. He has told me that relationships can add to the severity of stress and that Sutcliff will be bad from my overall health.

I do not agree.

Such things seem beyond comprehension, and I see not why this would add to the stress. If anything, the releases from paperwork nearly every night has added a type of serenity and relaxation I have not felt for several years. Why would he believe differently?

I shall continue on with my current relationship with slight caution.

This also leads me to write down my thoughts on a particular blonde reaper by the name of Ronald Knox. It has come to my attention that he has gotten into his own affiliation with my secretary. I do hope that this does not mean that she will fall beneath the job again. She is a very fine secretary, and I do hope that she will not have to undergo my strict punishment due to Knox's impetuous behavior.

Hanukah has thus passed, and Christmas is around the corner. The party that occurred in the main lobby has left the office in shambles, and I came to find the remnants of women's clothing in my office when I returned to work that morning. My desk was absolutely ruined, and I have not find the couple responsible for the destruction of my personal property.

Scythe help those who are responsible when I discover who they are.

I do not take such things lightly.

Not at all.

With Christmas in mind, I have thus planned my date with Grell Sutcliff. There is an old restaurant near the location of our first collection together. There is a small object I have been saving in my pocket, and I do plan on giving it to him on Christmas Eve. Sutcliff remains unaware of my plan except for the fact that he knows that there is a plan.

He has not stopped pestering me to inform him of my plan, but it would be ruined if I were to come out with it.

I can only hope that he will like my gift after the trouble I went through to get it.

 **William**


	19. December 27

Christmas has finally passed without much problem. Snow covers the ground in reaper London, and the many employees of the Dispatch have been tasked with the taxing effort of taking down all the decorations and lights meant for the holiday but two days ago.

My office window is frosted over, making the sight just as blurry as my vision without my glasses. I know not why, as the air outside is not cold. Nevertheless, I believe that is due to the fact that we are already dead, and the temperature has no effect on our undead bodies. Even fire has no such effect on us.

Christmas this year shall be unforgettable as long as my eternal life shall live. It was Christmas night that I took Sutcliff to the nice restaurant down Maple in mortal London. Upon arriving to his apartment to thus escort him, I froze in the doorway at the sight that awaited me. Unlike the many time before, this surprise was not nearly horrific and thus more…awesome (I do not mean the new generation's term of "awesome", and instead meant it was more AWE-some, as the original word once meant).

Never had I truly seen Sutcliff in a dress before (save for the embarrassing events of the Phantomhive production of Hamlet). I had once thought it to be a repulsing image, but it was much less. In fact, it actually complimented him in an odd way I cannot describe. It was hard not to see Sutcliff as a Mr., and I needed a constant reminder in my head that I knew that he was very intimately. I had seen the proof for myself.

Dinner was had at that Italian restaurant whose name I know not and instead focus on the good food served and hospitable service offered. The meal was consumed over a light-hearted chat—an escape from the world of paperwork and constant headaches. Sutcliff was more down-to-earth than ever, and I think he made an effort to contradict his physical form by acting as a woman would. The flirtatious, gentle smiles were not missed, and neither was the way he crossed his legs, or twirled his hair, or even looked at every reflective surface as if to make sure that he appeared as effeminate as he was ten seconds ago. He constantly seemed to change the subject, going from the talk of how the weather was to how to get a good deal on clothing and then the newest gossip from the office.

Apparently Mr. Knox and my secretary broke up nearly as soon as they began dating. I cannot remember the details as to why, but I am relieved that my secretary will now be able to focus on her important tasks.

After dinner, I left a tip on the table and escorted Sutcliff into the winter whose temperature could no longer affect us. We walked through the streets and into the downtown park where the playground was absent of children and the birds long gone in migration to the south. Stepping under the typical white gazebo, I became fondly aware of the item still deep within my pockets; it would change everything the moment I revealed my intentions.

Words were exchanged in another light conversation, and I managed to turn the conversation in my favor as I revealed the object in my pocket—a key to my apartment. After these past months, Sutcliff has made my home his own after our nights spent together. It would only make sense that I would give him the key to enter when he wished. If he wanted to move in completely, I would not object. He has his own sets of clothing in my dresser and closet too for after the nights he would spend in my apartment. It has become a routine now, and he appears to live more in my home than he does his. I am already used to the splashes of colors in my homely apartment—the red toothbrush on the sink, the cherry-scented shampoo on my shower wall, the red shoes sitting at the bottom of my closet, and the red glasses that seemed to sit next to mine on the ottoman every night. They have become commonplace now.

As expected, he squealed incessantly at the offer and made it more dramatic than previously intended. His idea of a celebration after, however, was something I could not refuse.

Today is my birthday as a human, I can remember that much. It has been spent at home, away from the workplace and relaxing on the couch with a good book. I have done this every year for as long as I have been a Shinigami; this year it is different. Now, a certain splash of color in my monotonous life his wiggled into my embrace and rested its head on my shoulder as we read silently on the couch in front of the fireplace unused for many years. He continues to read as I write, and I doubt he shall ever read the contents of this small repertoire of my thoughts. They have only been half-thought, and they are not my standards. Perhaps, I shall go back to rewrite them, but I have not the time.

In that light, I shall simply write to this secret No One and to myself to reflect on later. This is my last entry, and arguably the longest I have written since I began. And it is the most important, as this is merely a milestone that I have reached in coming so far.

The future remains uncertain.

However, I am not wary of what it will hold for now. For today is not only the day of my birth, but the day that I realized that I loved Grell Sutcliff—the day that I realized that I may always love Grell, not matter what I face in the near future.

For now, dear no one, I shall say goodbye. There is no longer a use for this journal anymore.

 _Fine._

 **William**


End file.
